Itchy of eyes, strong of spirit, is my current emotional epigraph. I just looked up the difference between epigraph and epitaph; the former is pithy phrases on coins and the chapters of books, the latter is an inscription on a tombstone. So really, either could work.

Okay, so I don’t know if it’s “taboo” to say this, but I have pinkeye. And no, it’s not contagious unless I swipe my fingers across my eyes and then stick them directly into your mouth and eyes and nose. For some reason, I feel like having pinkeye garners the same level as repugnancy as having herpes. Like, one is a relatively harmless, innocently-gotten simple itch, and the other is pinkeye. HEYO.

If there’s anything that could make me feel more unattractive, it’s having pinkeye. Like on top of the farmer’s tan, the congested nose and the—in my opinion, disarming and charming—grating tone that aforementioned nose has given my voice, I should also just have red eyes to rival a pothead’s.

Also I write these posts a day ahead, so when you—a.k.a. the one reader in England and myself at a later date—are reading this, I might be literally bright-eyed and figuratively bushy-tailed. And cleared of the herpes.

The herpes thing is a joke. I don’t have herpes, future boyfriend(s).

This is my second post of the evening, and I can’t decide if it’s coolly meta or weirdly meta to reference a blog post within a blog post. I’m not sure if I’ll post the other one. If I do, was it good? Or was it rambling? I feel like it might’ve been rambling.

With my pinkeye—can we change the name? I mean, I know that the actual name is conjunctivitis, which is about as attractive as a pair of capri pants—I legitimately look stoned, and I wondered if I could pull it off and just pretend I was hitting that dank kush instead of having pinkeye. In this world, being a pothead might be more socially-accepted than having the pink. Nope, can’t call it the pink. Just sounds like a VD.

I wasn’t originally going to write about having pinkeye, because my last article was about embarrassing myself at a party, and it gets pretty depressing when you’re trying to think of an article topic by just going back in your mental Rolodex of times you want to set yourself on fire from embarrassment. It feels like accidentally waving to someone who wasn’t actually waving at you. Just a quick-cold-sliver of embarrassment setting up house in my large intestine.

Writing about embarrassments is cathartic, but soon the cauterizing effect just starts to feel like your flesh is burning. Look, that’s a total callback, and I used cauterizing to bring it back full circle. That is Pulitzer-level shit. Someone congratulate me on that at a later date.

I’m sure that there’s a psychological reason behind why I feel the desire to mention all the times I’m a gross human on the Internet.

Also, side bar, I mentioned that I was so not into thinking about flirting at work, because I was “disgusting” and this happened twice and both times the person was like, “No, you’re not disgusting!” Like I was fishing for compliments, but actually I meant—and I told them this—disgusting in like the “sunburned, congested, generally sweaty” disgusting way. Trust and believe, you would know if I was fishing for compliments.

Is the title clever? I thought it was clever. Originally it was “He without sin should throw the first stoned,” but that was a mouthful. And also I’m already such a big sinner—Illuminati—so I really don’t need to add anything to the list, and I feel like reworking a Bible verse to include potheads is a big, fat “No.” But I could be wrong.

I’m not wrong. I’m a Satan worshipper.

Screen Shot 2015-07-22 at 11.14.14 PM

There is really no way to end this post. Oh, don’t hate on me for having pinkeye. I’m actually cool for talking about it.


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